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1,257 Chances at Forgiveness
by Camerin Courtney
October 18, 2006
I don't know why the comment stuck. But it did. And three days later it was still there, working me like a splinter—tiny, painful, and annoying.
I was hanging with the married ladies from my church at a local coffee shop when it happened. I always appreciate being invited along with this crew, but I also fortify myself in the car on the way to join them. Sometimes in this gathering I can feel like such an outsider—either from my own insecurities or from something that's said. Tonight it was the latter.
One of the women complimented my fingernails, which were uncharacteristically all long and reasonably well painted. On that day, they were to me a small glimmer of togetherness in an otherwise messy life. Another woman seconded the compliment, and then another woman a few people down from me spat out, "It's because she doesn't have any children."
I didn't say anything at the time. The comment didn't really get to me until a bit of time passed and it'd had a chance to fester. It seemed so trivial, and yet like such a pronouncement that I wasn't a real woman, or that loveliness was only possible in my life because of the absence of kids. And even though I knew the words were probably more about this woman's frazzledness in the midst of mothering three preschoolers than about any feelings she harbored toward me, they still stung.
Two weeks later, those words finally shaken, I was sitting at another coffee shop with a singleton friend relaying the demise of a dating relationship just days before. "What an idiot!" my friend Jen replied about the guy in question. The details aren't really important here, what was important to me was the validation that I had been wronged and my hurt feelings were justified.
Jen's anger on my behalf eased something vulnerable and raw in me, and yet also fanned the flames of my own anger. Three days later as I was telling the dating demise story to another friend, it may have contained a phrase or two like "and then the idiot said …." It felt good to label him the villain and me the innocent victim, even though something deep inside me knew this wasn't quite right.
It was interesting to be nursing these hurts so closely together. Feeling silly about the one stinging comment, trying to shake it off like a bad spill. And simultaneously hanging onto my anger at the guy. It was, after all, all I had left of that relationship. And even in retelling the story once more to another caring friend, I found myself bringing up a bit of anger at myself for not noticing some of the red flags that surely hinted at what was to come.
Lying in bed one night talking through my sheepishness and pain with God, wrestling with the notion of justifiable and not-so-justifiable anger, it hit me how many chances at unforgiveness we singles have. At exes who've returned our affections with apathy, betrayal, or abuse. At the men who don't ask us out. At the women who turn us down for dates. Sometimes, when we work ourselves into a real froth, at the entire other gender. At pastors who mention only spouses and kids in their sermon illustrations. At smug marrieds who offer well-meaning but often guilt-inducing platitudes. At Neil Clark Warren, Dr. Phil, and the rest of the lot who tell us a million and one things we need to do to be Good Marriage Material, at times offering the subtle implication that we're single because there are so many things wrong with us. At God, who at times can seem to turn a deaf ear on our prayer of "how long, oh Lord?" Or at times at ourselves for too many reasons to list here.
It's not that the married folk of the world don't have to wrestle with unforgiveness, it's just that they have to climb into bed every night with one of the easiest people for them to harbor bitterness toward. We, on the other hand, often have an easier time withdrawing from the offenders, becoming our own little island of indignation. Sometimes so justified in our emotions, but more often than not just being petty and bitter.
As these thoughts on forgiveness were tumbling around in my head over the following weeks, two conversations with fellow single friends added to the mix. One meandered into my office one day and brought up in our catching-up conversation that she was working on not man-bashing anymore. Of all things, the words of an India Arie song about forgiveness had impacted her. I verbally applauded her efforts and made a mental challenge to myself to follow her lead.
A week or so after that, I had brunch with another single friend who was wrestling with anger at a certain guy who hadn't returned her affections. She was wearing her anger like a loud, ugly coat, spitting out her frustration in caustic tones. Just when I was tempted to think she was messed up for being so affected, I realized that had been me just days before, describing my own relationship woes with frustration and not a small amount of anger.
Instead of my usual sympathetic agreement, making similar "what an idiot" pronouncements as my friends had given me when hearing my story, I decided just to listen. And to try to weave in an attempt to see things from the guy's perspective. Not excusing any bad behavior, but also not fueling any angry tirades as I might normally do.
In the following weeks I talked with singles who'd been through a horrible divorce, who'd been slammed in another's blog, who'd felt downright invisible at church, and who'd endured unkind remarks about their single state from a parent. As they relayed these stories, their forgiveness or lack thereof was so obvious. In their voice, eyes, and body language I could see peace or torment.
I was reminded afresh that there may be justified anger, but there's no justified unforgiveness. Yes, Jesus got angry in the face of injustice and legalism—but he held these people accountable, not in a grudge. He also called us to forgive seventy times seven (Matthew 18:21-22) and to do all we can to live at peace with others (Hebrews 12:14). Surely that was to avoid the poison of bitterness—and ultimately to point us to our own need for forgiveness.
Every time I do the difficult work to forgive, I'm reminded of how in need of forgiveness I am. I'm reminded of the cost of this process, the weight of forgiveness—and in so realizing, I'm saved from taking my own forgiveness for granted. And hopefully, with each act of forgiving, I'm prompted to examine my own heart—looking for the darkness that resides there and that needs repenting, releasing, reclaiming by the saving work of Christ.
So when the guy who hurt my heart e-mailed me, I wrote back that wasn't angry or throwing darts at his picture. And I meant it. And the next time I run into the married woman who made the snarky comment about my nails, I'll smile and greet her as kindly as ever. Not because I'm such a great person. But because I'm such a fallen one. In desperate need of forgiveness—and of forgiving.
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Copyright © 2006 ChristianityToday.com
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